


From Roses to Bone

by InterstellarMage



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Past Murder, Past Racial Genocide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1935876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterstellarMage/pseuds/InterstellarMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fic about Beatrix facing the atrocities she’s committed.</p>
<p>Permanently unfinished, Sorry. :[</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Roses to Bone

Just as the Knights of Pluto flank the Alexandrian battalion upon leaving the city walls with Steiner at their lead, they pass through the city gates first upon their return. This meant that once again Beatrix was in her rightful place at the far rear of the procession of soldiers, all wearily marching home after the monthly clearing of wild beasts outside the city walls.

Citizens dotted the noisy street mostly due to a sense of keeping with tradition. Most stand aside for the fleet of mostly women in gleaming helms when a girl with white, clawed feet pushes through the front of the crowd in contrast. This motion catches Beatrix’s eye and before she even opens her mouth, she can tell that the approaching girl can’t be much older than thirteen.  
"General!" she shouts with a bravado that betrays her long, trembling ears. Slowing to a near halt, Beatrix turns to face the approaching girl when she feels a warm wetness on her face quickly turning cool. It doesn't take even a second for her to realize she’s been spat on. Half of her expected this. "Beatrix of Alexandria, that was for Burmecia!" the girl says in a voice half an octave more shrill. None of the guards in the last platoon draw their weapons, but in wordless unison armored bodies turn left, shift into stance, hands on hilts, and lock eyes on their general for command. The girl stands steady, determined to hear a reply from the woman.

Beatrix doesn't raise a hand, even to her face. “Platoon, stand easy,” she barks. A wave of arms sweep to a fold neatly behind their backs and a clank echoes as forty nine steeled heels meet. A single soldier stands sneering at the girl with one of her hands still on her sword.

"General, she-" "Private, fall in and stand easy." Beatrix says. The lower ranked officer casts one more look of disgust at the girl before she bites her lip and sinks into the squad as she rejoins the formation.

Still not making eye contact with the girl, the general bows her head and then whole upper body deeply. “I’m sorry, we-” The Burmecian girl stomps a foot and cuts her off. “You’re …sorry? Alexandrian mages and soldiers killed my people. You killed my family.” Beatrix hesitates with her body still bent. “My brother was fourteen when he joined the Gizamaluke Guard the day before the siege. Fourteen!" the girl continues, shouting loudly and wildly now. She kicks the cobblestone. "Look at me, you filth!"

Slowly rising to full height as if her spine was made of aging wood hinges, Beatrix settles her eye on her. ”I could never understand the kind of pain I've caused you.”

An older grey-haired Burmecian steps out of the crowd and hobbles on a bad leg towards the girl, “Of course you can’t!” she curses as the man who is clearly her war wounded father pulls her back. He has a deep look of fear in his eyes and he barely manages to mouth “Forgive her,” over the top of the struggling Burmecian girl’s head.

Beatrix makes no move. The girl spits out ”Bloodlusting genocider,” in as cold and hard a voice she can manage before being absorbed into a sea of faces, chatter considerably silenced. A heavy feeling fills the air as the general pauses once more.

"Platoon, Atten-SHUN.” The soldiers all drop their arms, lock their shoulders and stare straight ahead. Beatrix steps two rows into their ranks.

"Private Ernette, Insubordination. Two weeks docked pay. B class reassignment." The general glares down at the soldier from about four inches away before wiping her face and flicking her hand downward atop the soldier’s feet. "You served in my company at the siege of Burmecia. You should know better." she finally says in a conversational speaking tone before weaving effortlessly out of the formation and back into the position she knows she’s earned as the left hand of Alexandria.

She bellows once again, “Right face. Forward march.”


End file.
